


a dark world aches for a splash of the sun

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 15:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17449277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: after tottenham lose to manchester united, everything dele has been feeling piles on top of him.or,Most of the team is in the changing room by now, still joking but more subdued, massaging out knotted muscles with winces on their faces. Dele doesn’t take any notice of that, though. All he can see is Eric, sitting on the bench right below Dele’s own name, a soft smile on his face.There's something in Eric's eyes, something that makes Dele feel sick. Pity, he thinks, feeling a stab of betrayal spear his heart. It's the last thing he'd ever expect from his boyfriend, but it's the only thing he's seeing right now."Don't," Dele says quietly, when Eric opens his mouth to speak. Whatever he says, it's probably going to set off the hair trigger that's been controlling Dele's emotions since half time.





	a dark world aches for a splash of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back with another! 
> 
> after watching spurs lose to utd on sunday, i got In My Feels because they were fantastic and honestly, they deserved that win. it was an incredible match and spurs played incredibly well, they were just super unlucky and i'm very sad for them
> 
> this is a result of that. i'm compartmentalising, dele's compartmentalising - we're all compartmentalising, really.
> 
> thank you for reading xxx

The final whistle blows, and Dele only sticks around long enough to shake the hands of his opponents.

Normally, he’s as gracious as he can be after a loss – half hugs and mild congratulations, soaking in the home fans’ applause – but this feels wrong. It feels bitter. 

“You played well, man,” Jesse smiles at him, tinged with sadness and pity at the corners, and that’s about all he can stomach. It makes him feel sick, fury bubbling in his veins. Red shirts everywhere, like a bull to the matador, and Dele nods before stepping away.

He’s the first one down the tunnel, leaving his teammates behind as he kicks the mud off his studs. Harry was on the floor back there, Dele saw him out the corner of his eye, and he knows he should be checking if he’s okay, but there’s no room for anything in his chest excepting this aching chasm. 

Nobody follows him. They’re all back out there, still huddled on the pitch, camaraderie and commiserations. The sadistic part of him prefers it this way.

He rips his jersey over his head, throwing it on top of his bag without a second thought. He doesn’t have the time to think about it; his mind is filled with nothing but replays of the game, all the missed chances and close calls.

They could have won that. They _should have_ won that.

If only, Dele thinks, he was better. A better player, a better man. This is his fault, he’s nowhere near good enough to play alongside Spurs’ first team. All those opportunities and – nothing. Absolutely deafening in the silence. 

He sheds the rest of his clothes in a pile just outside the showers, slipping in and turning the water up to scalding. He feels like he needs to wash it all away; sweat and tears and most of all, the disappointment. 

The dressing room is almost eerie when it’s this quiet. The ghost of bantering still lingers, before the match, when things were hopeful and Dele had faith. Poch’s half time talk and his barely concealed fury over letting Rashford make that run, the determination of going back out and getting a win.

It’s all futile now.

His thigh is still aching from Pogba’s tackle, four purple round circles branded into his skin. They’re already already bruising, on the way to turning black and sticking around for weeks. A dark reminder of a dark loss.

It’s easy to get lost in here. The water is burning hot, drumming against his skull like a second heartbeat while steam blurs his vision. Usually, he’d take his time and let all the thoughts clear out of his mind, but not tonight.

Tonight, he wants to be as quick as possible; avoid all the disappointed smiles and sympathetic remarks, so he can get to a place where he can get even further inside his own head. 

He scrubs his body clean, rough movements that flush his skin red raw and make him feel warm. It’s the least he deserves, really. At least Eric isn’t here to tell him off, to stare disapprovingly. It’s not like Dele means to act like this, okay? He's just… Compartmentalising the loss. The best – and only – way he knows how. 

The telltale clacking of studs against the floor is coming closer, louder, multiplying every second. It makes him feel like the walls are closing in on him, air growing thicker, lungs burning with it, so he shuts the shower off and wraps a towel around his waist. 

Most of the team is in the changing room by now, still joking but more subdued, massaging out knotted muscles with winces on their faces. Dele doesn’t take any notice of that, though. All he can see is Eric, sitting on the bench right below Dele’s own name, a soft smile on his face.

There's something in Eric's eyes, something that makes Dele feel sick. Pity, he thinks, feeling a stab of betrayal spear his heart. It's the last thing he'd ever expect from his boyfriend, but it's the only thing he's seeing right now.

"Don't," Dele says quietly, when Eric opens his mouth to speak. Whatever he says, it's probably going to set off the hair trigger that's been controlling Dele's emotions since half time.

He needs to keep it together.

Eric just nods, offering Dele some clean clothes, not taking his eyes off of the younger man's face. A pair of trackies, a t-shirt, and one of Eric's own oversized hoodies. Comfort clothes, really, but Dele isn't complaining. It's the most he can bring himself to accept.

Dressing himself gives him something to focus on. He takes his time, shimmying his boxers over his hips and then pulling a pair of socks on. Tightening the string on his joggers, smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt. Tugging on the sleeves of the hoodie until they're touching the tips of his fingers, and double tying his laces.

He still feels like he's in a bubble, every noise dimmed like he's underwater. The rest of the world has dropped away and there's only one source of light, shining right on Eric and highlighting the concern in his blue eyes.

"Hey," the older man says when Dele has been quiet a little too long. He's standing still, staring at the floor and picking at his fingers. Thinking about everything he should have done during the game, and all the things he did wrong. "Are you okay?"

Dele is the furthest thing from okay, but he doesn't know how to vocalise the feeling, so he shrugs instead. Looks at Eric from beneath his lashes, and feels guilty when his boyfriend sighs.

"Come on," Eric says quietly, slinging Dele's kit bag over his shoulder. He puts an arm around the younger man's shoulders, drawing him into his side as he barely spares a glance at the rest of the team. "Let's get you home."

Eric is radiating warmth where Dele feels bitterly cold, so he leans into the touch and lets himself be tucked into it. It's easy to rest his weight against Eric, to slide an arm around his waist and curl his fingers into his hoodie. It feels a lot like he needs to be looked after, to be propped up and protected, but neither of them mind right now. In fact, Dele welcomes it.

None of the backroom staff bother them as Eric leads them out of the dressing room. They all know what Dele gets like after a loss, how he lets it go to his head and faster into something black and ugly. Some of them have even been on the receiving end of it, even though he's only ever ruefully apologetic afterwards.

He doesn't mean to turn it onto other people, but sometimes, it's just _too_ easy.

Eric leads him to the car, retracting his arm to open the passenger side door. It leaves Dele cold, stunned by the loss of contact, but he gets in the car anyway. Eric hesitates, almost like he wants to lean in and kiss Dele, but instead he smoothes a thumb along the line of the younger man's cheekbone.

It's more than enough for Dele, but it makes him feel like he's coming apart, so he curls in on himself. It's not easy to make himself so small, but somehow he manages it, forehead resting on the cold glass window as he stares at the world passing around them.

The drive is quiet, just the gentle tones of a pop radio station on, because normally Eric would be singing along, top volume and off key. Normally, it would make Dele laugh, but he can't even bring himself to muster a smile.

It's been an awful week. Dele knows that he's got possibly the best job in the world, but sometimes, when life is this busy, it feels anything but. His second captaincy, a barely-scraped match against Chelsea (without a single goal from open play), and now, this loss.

Add that on top of the stress from Eric's illness, and all he wants to do is sleep for a fortnight.

He doesn’t even have the energy to drag his phone from his pocket. All he’ll see is their loss, anyway – social media experts pulling apart the performance, listing every single mistake, shouting about which players should be sold by the end of the transfer window.

Dele already knows that he doesn’t belong. He doesn’t need a thousand more people telling him that, as well. 

He’s shocked out of his darkened thoughts by a hand on his thigh, warm through the thick material of his trackies. He’d know the shape of it anywhere, the length of those fingers, the tight grip, and the way the thumb strokes smoothing circles.

Eric, always there, holding him together when he feels like he could fall apart. He probably doesn’t know how much the gesture means, and Dele can’t find the words to explain it.

The older man is breathing evenly, too much so to be natural, but he keeps his eyes on the road. If Dele had the energy to lift his head and look at him, he'd be able to see the wheels in Eric's head turning. He can practically hear it.

"I know you don't agree, but I was really, really impressed with you tonight," Eric says, tone careful and words considerate. He knows that if he says the wrong thing, Dele will jump down his throat - it's happened before. Neither of them are all that good at talking about their feelings. "You never gave up, not even at the very last second. You were always there and always ready, and you had some amazing opportunities. I'm really proud of you, Del - I'm proud of _all_ of you. It would have been a pleasure playing alongside this team tonight."

It would be so easy for Dele to snap right now. There's an insult on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out; something about Eric's selfishness losing them the match. But he doesn't mean it, not really. He could never say a bad word about Eric Dier and really, truly mean it.

He's trying to be a better person, he really is. His boyfriend makes him a better person, fills him up with warmth and happiness until there's no room left inside of him for anything else. But he's still that same kid, isn't he? The one with a shitty excuse for a mother, who felt like the world was out to get him. Sometimes, he can't shake that same feeling.

Still, he knows that Eric means well. They're both trying here, to varying degrees of success, so he aims a tight lipped smile at the older man, and attempts to be genuine. He mostly is, and Eric seems satisfied, ending the conversation with a short nod.

He doesn't move his hand, so instead Dele tanges their fingers together and goes back to staring out of the window.

He's bone-deep exhausted by the time they pull into the driveway, eyes burning from the force of keeping them open. He doesn't want to sleep, because he'll dream of the game, but he needs this day to be over.

Autopilot is the only thing that gets him out of the car and through the front door, the kind that makes him not remember moving. But he finds himself standing in the hallway, stock still, looking round at the white walls and framed photographs, a collection of nick-nacks on the side table next to the barely used landline.

_You're home._

_You're safe._

_You don't have to think about it anymore._

Eric's hand on the small of his back startles him out of his thoughts. The older man has already toed his trainers off and hung his keys on the little hook, and he's staring concerned at Dele.

"Alright?" He asks, but doesn't wait for a reply. It's a stupid question anyway; of course Dele isn't okay. There's a lump in his throat that's been there since his second missed shot, choking him and making it hard to breathe. "Come on - I'll put the kettle on."

And with that, Eric steps around him, hand squeezing the back of his neck briefly. The sounds of the kettle being filled and mugs clinking against the counter filter through, and Dele can't stop the smile that creeps onto his face.

He steps into the kitchen to find Eric standing with his back to him, carefully dumping teabags into the mugs and adding sugar. An extra soonful in Dele's, like always, but suddenly the younger man doesn't fancy drinking it anymore. He approaches Eric in swift steps, placing his hands on the other man's waist to spin him round.

"Hi," Eric says quietly, bumping their noses together as he grins. The concern and tension in his body has eased a little, like maybe he doesn't need to be so worried about Dele anymore. He even laughs slightly, a breathless sound that makes Dele's heart hurt.

He curls his fingers into Eric's hoodie, gripping tight as he surges forward and closes the gap between them. The kiss is messy, off centre and slightly painful, Eric's teeth digging into Dele's lip and their noses colliding, but it's still heated. Still makes Dele feels desperate, toes curling in his shoes as his fingers scramble at Eric's belt.

"No," Eric says suddenly, pulling away from the kiss with a dazed, stunned look on his face. He has one hand on Dele's chest and the other on the small of his back, holding him tight but pushing him away at the same time. A walking contradiction. "No, Del."

Dele springs away, betrayal stinging at the back of his eyes. He feels it right in his heart, clawing up his throat, but he fixes Eric with a level stare. "You don't want me?" He asks, but the words are sticking to his dry mouth.

" _What_?" Eric says immediately, face contorted with disbelief. But he doesn't move forward, doesn't make an attempt to reassure Dele, so... "Of course I-"

"I'm sorry," Dele whispers, cutting off Eric's sentence. Every single defence he built up since the final whistle, every single wall - it's gone in a second. Crumbling, collapsing into dust around his feet, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. "I'm just- I fuck everything up, don't I?"

There's tears clinging to his eyelashes, leaving wet marks against his cheeks when he blinks. He hates it, being this vulnerable; he can't remember the last time he cried, and it certainly wasn't over losing a game of football... But this is something much, much bigger. Life has been weighing down on him for weeks, stress and fear leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

"No, Del. No," Eric says, before the last syllable has even left Dele's throat. He takes a step forward, _finally_ , one arm curling around the younger man's shoulders as he uses his free hand to brush away the stray tears. "You don't fuck _anything_ up, alright? You're just not in the right frame of mind for this, not now. Just... Come here, Dele. Come here."

The spread of Eric's open arms is inviting, comforting, like a heavy blanket after a long day, and Dele can't help but fall into him. He wraps his arms right around his boyfriend's waist, avoiding the surgery site that he knows is still sore, and- cries. Just simply cries, until his throat hurts and his eyes are stinging, and Eric is rubbing his back through it all.

"I'm sorry," Dele whispers eventually, voice hoarse, when he has nothing left to give. He has calmed down enough that the embarrassment is starting to set in, but then he reminds himself - this is Eric Dier, the one person who has seen every side of him and loves him anyway.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," Eric says, lips a spot of warmth at Dele's hairline. He feels so much bigger, like this: strong arms and a broad chest, towering over Dele and making him feel safe. "Tomorrow is a new day, yeah? Tomorrow, we wake up and we move on, and you'll be alright. I promise you, no matter what - you'll be alright."

He sounds so sure of his himself, so confident, that it makes the set of Dele's shoulders straighten a little, and he pulls back from the hug, wiping his wet cheeks roughly with his sleeves. 

"I love you," he says quietly, offering Eric a small smile. It's the only thing he can really give right now, the only thing he can say after everything Eric has done for him tonight. He wishes it could be more.

"I love you, too, Del," Eric says, pulling the younger man into another tight hug. He says the words like he doesn't mind that Dele can't offer that much. Like he'll be there for Dele, for the rest of their lives, no matter what. 

And honestly, Dele quite likes the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [bami-dele](https://bami-dele.tumblr.com/) (i changed my url, sorry) xxx


End file.
